The Stories of the Mother
Kiné had been born in Africa. Of this time there was one story she would repeat as she braided the hair of her cherished daughter, the product of the surprising love she found with Paul McCain. The story she would tell when she and her child dug in the garden beside Paul’s mother, Helen, or when Kiné brought water to Baron McCain, a man who was stiff with Kiné but who turned tender at the sight of his granddaughter.
The present that reminded her of the past: The way Beauty held her head. Or the sound of Beauty singing. It would bring up a memory of across the water, in the compound of Kiné’s father. And children, who had been her siblings, the offspring of the four wives and three concubines of Kiné’s father.
Kiné’s father had not been a very wealthy man. However, as her mother had liked to say, he had been very blessed and able to raise the pillar of charity high, as Allah commanded. Kiné’s father had five slaves, male and female. The three females were concubines, low-status yet beautiful women seized as captives during war. Though the concubines warmed his sleeping mat, the father also had four wives, of which Kiné’s mother, Assatou, was the first. Being first wife meant Assatou was in charge of the compound. She was a fertile woman and had given her husband several children; all but Kiné were sons.
The day had been pleasant, starting in the dark morning with first prayers. Kiné had been playing by herself while her youngest brothers had practiced writing their Arabic letters in the dust before heading off for lessons with their teachers. The oldest sons were out of the compound, occupied by business that Kiné only thought of as manly, since it was a mystery to her. During the midday, there was a soup with dried fish for lunch. In preparation for dinner, Assatou killed a chicken, wringing its neck in a drama of squawking, before dropping it into a pot of boiling water and plucking the feathers. That would be her contribution to the largest meal. As first wife and the daughter of the district’s marabout, a holy man with great power, Assatou didn’t worry about jumping around to please a man. She’d given her husband sons before giving him a daughter, and she never caused trouble. Her place in the household was secure; the proof was in the heavy gold in her ears and around her neck.
The mother and daughter beat the garlic and peppers in the pestle. Bum-bum. Bum-bum. The child was tiny for her size and struggled to lift her mortar. Bum-bum. Bum-bum. Assatou adjusted her long head scarf, to keep her hair covered. She admonished Kiné to do the same. The child was bored, so to keep her occupied, the mother told stories. She began with the terrible monster of the river folks, the Ninki Nanka, who had the body of a crocodile and the head of a giraffe. Also, long scales covering his tough skin, which was white underneath its belly, like the toubab, the white strangers in their midst. This monster breathed fire to paralyze its victims before eating them. This is why good little girls should stay close to their mothers and not wander about.
Then the mother began a story about the hare and Boukie—the filthy hyena—and how the hare always was tricking the latter. Assatou had arrived at the point in her tale where the hyena had the smaller animal in his grips, when the group of men walked into the courtyard. They had the muscled strides of purpose.
“Salaamalaikum,” Assatou said, sweeping her hand to include all the men. Peace be with you.
“Malaikum salaam.” Only the tallest man returned the greeting. His voice was loud, as the six other men looked at their sandals.
Assatou continued in Wolof, “Na nga def?” And how are you?
A rushed greeting indicated bad manners, but the tall man didn’t care; he waved his hand impatiently. He didn’t want to go through the polite rituals. He asked her, where was her husband? Even at Assatou’s polite response—sir, her husband was at her father’s compound—the tall man kept talking loudly and she leaned back, meeting his eyes. Assatou was the cherished daughter of a marabout, and she took no disrespect, not even from her husband. She spoke sharply to the tall man, reminding him to respect her house, but the tall man pulled back his hand, and then slapped her. Kiné cried out, and the other women and girls in the courtyard did, too. But this was only the beginning of the agony.
Then there were hours and days that roared as Assatou, Kiné, the other wives, her father’s concubines, and their female children were walked along the road. Kiné never would see her brothers and father again. The women and girls were tied together with rope as if they were captives of war, and the younger boys were marched in another direction.